There was once an elderly man, well over ninety years of age. He had been a soldier in the army of the Ottoman Caliphate. He completed his military training in Turkey before the First World War.He later developed a chronic illness that left him extremely weak and emaciated, to the point that the doctors had lost all hope. He was even placed in a special ward known as the “Azrael Room”, reserved for those who were not expected to recover. However, quite suddenly, he emerged from his coma and stood up as though he were perfectly healthy. When he opened the door and walked out, the doctors were astonished at his condition.
Eventually, he returned to the battlefield and served until the end of the First World War, and he also entered the Second World War. Yet the man survived. He went on to marry, have children, and live to an advanced age.
There was another man whose family had already dug a grave for him, believing that he had died. Quite unexpectedly, he regained consciousness from his coma, and the grave prepared for him was used instead to bury someone else. That man recovered, married, had children, and eventually attended the funerals of those who had once dug his grave.
These two accounts demonstrate that no one knows the appointed time of death except Allah. Therefore, one should never despair when afflicted with illness, even if it is chronic. One must remain hopeful, continue to pray, and persist in making every possible effort.
When viewed through the lens of military history, such accounts acquire an even deeper resonance. Wars have repeatedly demonstrated that survival on the battlefield does not always conform to calculation, rank, or medical prognosis. In the trenches of the First World War and amidst the devastation of the Second, countless soldiers who were presumed lost survived against expectation, while others who appeared strong fell without warning. History, therefore, reminds us that war magnifies human uncertainty: strategy may be planned, weapons may be engineered, and campaigns may be calculated with precision, yet the ultimate decree of life and death remains beyond human command. In this sense, the theatre of war becomes not merely a contest of armies, but a profound reminder of human limitation before divine will.
War, if one were to judge by the persistence of its recurrence, appears to be humanity’s most consistent invention. Civilisations rise proclaiming enlightenment, justice, and moral progress, yet almost invariably they sharpen their swords before they finish polishing their philosophies. From the chronicles of ancient empires to the mechanised slaughter of the twentieth century, war has functioned not merely as an interruption of history, but as one of its principal engines.
In The History of Warfare (1993, Hutchinson), John Keegan argued that war is deeply embedded in cultural structures rather than being a simple biological inevitability. His observation unsettles the comforting myth that war is merely an unfortunate accident of miscommunication. Instead, it suggests that societies often cultivate the very narratives that make war appear honourable, necessary, or even sacred.
Similarly, in On War (1832, originally published by Dümmler), Carl von Clausewitz famously defined war as “the continuation of politics by other means.” The phrase has been quoted so frequently that it risks becoming decorative rather than disruptive. Yet its implication is severe: war is not the breakdown of political order but its extension. In that sense, battlefields are not anomalies of civilisation; they are its logical consequences when persuasion fails and power insists.
One might also consider the monumental narrative offered by Antony Beevor in The Second World War (2012, Weidenfeld & Nicolson), where the scale of industrial killing revealed a modernity capable of organising death with bureaucratic efficiency. The tragedy was not merely that millions perished, but that their deaths were managed with administrative precision. Modern war thus exposed a chilling paradox: technological advancement did not abolish barbarity; it streamlined it.
To write the history of war, therefore, is not to catalogue weapons or rehearse casualty figures. It is to examine the moral imagination of humanity. Why do nations repeatedly convince themselves that violence will secure peace? Why does each generation assume that its war will be the last necessary one? And why does the rhetoric of honour so often conceal calculations of territory, resources, and prestige?
Throughout history, war has been the most dramatic arena in which the uncertainty of death is displayed without disguise. In times of peace, mortality may appear distant, softened by routine and concealed by ordinary rhythms of life. Yet on the battlefield, the fragility of existence becomes immediate and undeniable. The soldier who marches confidently at dawn may not see dusk, while the one gravely wounded at noon may inexplicably survive.
In The First World War (1998, Knopf), John Keegan describes how industrialised warfare reduced human life to statistics, yet could never fully eliminate unpredictability. Artillery was calculated with mathematical precision, and entire offensives were planned to the minute. Nevertheless, shells missed their intended targets, men survived direct blasts, and chance intervened in ways no general could foresee. The machinery of modernity promised control, but the outcome of individual lives remained uncertain.
The memoirs of soldiers from the trenches frequently reveal a paradoxical awareness: they prepared for death daily, yet continued to live as though spared for a reason. In Storm of Steel (1920, originally published by E. S. Mittler & Sohn), Ernst Jünger recounts surviving repeated injuries that would have ended the lives of others. His testimony does not romanticise war, but it underscores a disquieting truth — proximity to death does not grant mastery over it.
The Second World War intensified this reality. In The Second World War (2012, Weidenfeld & Nicolson), Antony Beevor details battles in which entire units were annihilated while isolated individuals survived against overwhelming odds. Such accounts challenge the illusion that strength, rank, or preparation guarantees survival. They also expose the profound psychological burden borne by survivors, who often wrestled with the question of why they lived while others perished.
From a philosophical perspective, war strips away the comforting fiction that humanity governs its own destiny absolutely. Military doctrine may assert control through strategy, discipline, and technological superiority. Yet history repeatedly demonstrates that the decisive moment often lies beyond calculation. The uncertainty of death in war serves as a stark reminder that human agency operates within limits.For believers, this uncertainty reinforces a theological conviction: that the appointed time of death is not determined by circumstance alone. Illness may threaten life outside the battlefield, and bullets may threaten it within, yet neither guarantees its conclusion. War, in its brutality, thus paradoxically affirms a metaphysical humility — that life and death remain subject to a decree higher than human intention.
In this sense, the history of war is not merely a chronicle of violence but a meditation on vulnerability. It compels us to confront the tension between human planning and divine decree, between calculated strategy and unforeseen survival. The battlefield, therefore, becomes more than a site of conflict; it becomes a stark classroom in which humanity is repeatedly reminded of its limits.
If death is the most visible certainty of war, survival is its most perplexing aftermath. To survive a battlefield is not merely to continue breathing; it is to carry the weight of memory. The end of gunfire does not silence recollection. For many, survival marks the beginning of a different struggle — one fought not with rifles, but with conscience.
In The Great War and Modern Memory (1975, Oxford University Press), Paul Fussell argued that the First World War reshaped not only geopolitics but the very language through which suffering was expressed. Survivors returned home unable to reconcile the rhetoric of honour with the mud, terror, and absurdity they had witnessed. Memory thus became both testimony and indictment.
Similarly, in If This Is a Man (1947, De Silva), Primo Levi reflects on survival within the machinery of total war and genocide. Levi’s narrative reveals that survival can carry a moral ambiguity: the survivor may feel gratitude for life, yet also guilt for having lived when others perished. This phenomenon, often termed “survivor’s guilt,” illustrates that endurance is not always accompanied by relief. It can be accompanied by haunting questions.
Any serious theological reflection on war inevitably encounters the tension between divine providence and human violence. If God is sovereign over history, how are believers to interpret the recurrence of war? Is it a manifestation of divine judgement, a consequence of human sin, or a tragic necessity within a fallen world? These questions were not born in modern lecture halls; they were wrestled with in late antiquity amidst the collapse of empires.
In The City of God (426, Penguin Classics edition 2003, translated by Henry Bettenson), Augustine of Hippo responded to accusations that Christianity had weakened the Roman Empire and invited its downfall. Augustine did not deny the horror of war, yet he rejected the notion that earthly peace could ever be ultimate. For him, the earthly city is marked by disordered love — a condition in which pride, ambition, and domination generate conflict. War, therefore, was not an aberration but a symptom of humanity’s moral fragmentation.
Yet Augustine did not embrace pacifism without qualification. From his reflections emerged the early contours of what would later be called Just War theory. War, he argued, could only be morally defensible if waged under legitimate authority, for a just cause, and with right intention — namely, the restoration of peace rather than the pursuit of cruelty or revenge. Even then, war remained a tragic remedy rather than a righteous triumph.
Centuries later, these principles were systematised and expanded by Thomas Aquinas in the Summa Theologica (1265–1274, Benziger Bros. edition 1947). Aquinas articulated three essential criteria: proper authority, just cause, and right intention. His framework sought to restrain the chaos of violence by subjecting it to moral scrutiny. War was not to be sanctified; it was to be morally interrogated.
The Just War tradition continued to develop in early modern thought, notably in the work of Hugo Grotius, whose On the Law of War and Peace (1625, originally published by Nicolaas Buon) laid foundations for international law. Grotius shifted the discourse towards a more juridical and universal framework, suggesting that even in conflict, nations remain bound by norms that transcend immediate interest. Thus, theology gradually informed legal structures that sought to civilise warfare.
From a theological standpoint, the central dilemma persists: can violence ever be reconciled with divine justice? The Just War tradition does not celebrate bloodshed; rather, it acknowledges the moral gravity of resorting to force. It attempts to draw boundaries within a realm that resists containment. War is conceded as sometimes necessary, yet always tragic.
This theological humility is significant. It resists the temptation to baptise national ambition as sacred destiny. It challenges leaders who invoke divine sanction too readily. And it reminds believers that earthly victories do not equate to eternal righteousness. In Augustine’s vision, the ultimate peace is not achieved through conquest, but through the reconciliation of humanity with God.
Thus, the history of war, when viewed through the lens of theology, becomes a narrative not only of power and politics, but of moral accountability before a transcendent Judge. Human beings may declare wars, sign treaties, and commemorate victories, yet they do so under the shadow of a higher tribunal. The battlefield may determine territorial boundaries, but it does not determine ultimate justice.
War, therefore, produces not only casualties, but witnesses. These witnesses bear a moral responsibility that extends beyond their personal trauma. Their recollections challenge societies that are tempted to romanticise conflict. They expose the cost behind the banners and the grief behind the parades. Without such testimony, history risks becoming a gallery of victories detached from human suffering.
There is also a collective dimension to memory. Nations construct memorials, commemorate anniversaries, and curate narratives of heroism. Yet collective memory can be selective. It may elevate triumph while muting atrocity. The moral responsibility of historians and citizens alike is to resist this distortion. Remembrance must not become propaganda; it must remain honest, even when honesty unsettles pride.
From a philosophical standpoint, survival demands ethical reflection. If one has been spared, what obligation follows? Is survival merely biological fortune, or does it impose a duty to advocate peace, justice, or reconciliation? The history of war suggests that survival is not morally neutral. It places the individual within a broader narrative of accountability.
In this sense, survivors stand at a crossroads between past violence and future possibility. Their memory can perpetuate cycles of resentment, or it can cultivate vigilance against repetition. War may end on paper with treaties and signatures, but its moral reckoning continues in the conscience of those who remain. The true aftermath of war, therefore, lies not only in reconstruction of cities, but in reconstruction of moral imagination.
No war begins without language. Before the first shot is fired, speeches are delivered, proclamations are issued, and prayers are recited. Faith, in such moments, often stands at the edge of power — sometimes as conscience, sometimes as instrument. The language of justification becomes the bridge between violence and virtue.
Throughout history, rulers have invoked divine sanction to frame military campaigns as sacred duty rather than political calculation. In The Crusades: The Authoritative History of the War for the Holy Land (2010, Ecco), Thomas Asbridge demonstrates how religious rhetoric mobilised thousands during the medieval Crusades. The promise of spiritual reward transformed territorial conflict into transcendent mission. Yet beneath the cross and banner lay familiar motives: land, influence, and power.
This pattern is not confined to medieval Christendom. In Jihad: The Trail of Political Islam (2002, I.B. Tauris), Gilles Kepel analyses how modern political movements have employed religious vocabulary to legitimise violence. The language of faith, when fused with ideology, can generate extraordinary loyalty and sacrifice. However, it can also blur the line between devotion and domination.
The theological vocabulary of war often operates through powerful abstractions: honour, destiny, divine mandate, sacred obligation. Such terms possess emotional resonance that exceeds empirical scrutiny. They sanctify risk and soften moral hesitation. Once war is framed as obedience to God, dissent may appear as betrayal not merely of nation, but of faith itself.
Yet religious traditions are rarely monolithic. Within Christianity, Islam, and Judaism alike, one finds vigorous debates over the limits of violence. The Just War tradition sought to discipline war with moral criteria. Islamic jurisprudence developed complex rules concerning combat, protection of non-combatants, and the prohibition of excess. Jewish thought wrestled with the distinction between commanded wars and discretionary ones. Faith, therefore, has not only justified wars; it has also restrained them.
The danger arises when theological nuance is replaced by political simplification. Leaders may selectively quote sacred texts while ignoring the interpretive traditions that surround them. In such moments, religion becomes a rhetorical accelerant. It does not create the fire of conflict, but it can intensify its flame.
Philosophically, the language of justification reveals a deeper human anxiety. Violence demands explanation. Societies rarely admit that wars are waged solely for greed or prestige. Instead, they appeal to higher principles. Faith provides a vocabulary of transcendence that can ennoble sacrifice — but also conceal ambition.
Thus, the study of war requires attentiveness not only to armies and strategies, but to sermons and speeches. Words prepare consciences long before weapons prepare battlefields. The question is not merely whether faith has been used in war, but how it has been interpreted, framed, and instrumentalised. Between sincere conviction and cynical manipulation lies a spectrum that historians must examine with care.
In the end, faith can either illuminate the moral cost of war or obscure it. It can call leaders to humility, or it can embolden them with certainty. The language of justification, therefore, is never neutral. It reveals how societies reconcile their highest ideals with their most destructive actions.
[Part 2]
